Don't Mince Words

My friends keep me in check.  They also tease me about some of my more memorable dating and relationship decisions.

A friend in New York recently called me laughing from a bar.  “Oh my God, Marna.  Magic Hat has a new hefeweizen out called “Circus Boy.”  What ever happened to that fucking tool?” he asked.

Pete remembers a six-month relationship I had because it was cluttered with mutual drama and ended with the guy leaving to join Ringling Brothers’ circus band.  He was nicknamed “Circus Boy” by my friends and inducted into Marna’s Hall of Fame.  Circus Boy taught me to never date career musicians, especially when they say, “but music is my mistress.”

I was once at a Dr. Pat Allen relationship seminar (Mars/Venus type stuff) where she truly explained M/F dynamics in relationships.  When she had Q&A, I asked her what she thought of left-handed musicians.  I’ll never forget her response, “If you want a thinking and rational man and you are in the feminine role, don’t date a left-handed musician.”  As a result of that advice, career musicians are on my banned dating list.

So, to answer Pete’s question, I don’t know what happened to Circus Boy.  Last I heard, he was quitting the circus, getting married, and settling in Las Vegas.  Eight years later, I can safely say I’d rather have a six-pack of Circus Boy than see Circus Boy, but my friends and I thank him for the memories.

The Betty Ford Center will soon open a wing in my honor – for those suffering from unromantic Valentine’s Day addiction.  My bender began in 1974.  Mrs. Kessenger, my third grade teacher, engineered a project to get our class excited about Valentine’s Day.  Or was it just her way of getting rid of the red construction paper left over from Christmas?

On February 13th, we were given brown paper bags and instructed to create mailboxes for the Valentines we would receive the next day.  I cut hearts, I colored, and I put my name on my bag.  I was ready.

When I got home, I realized I needed to buy Valentine cards to distribute to my classmates.  Mom and I jumped in our Rambler station wagon and drove to the drug store.  I found a large box of assorted Valentines with envelopes that would be perfect.  There was a bumblebee card that said, “Bee Mine,” a bear holding a jar of honey that said, “You’re sweet,” a tiger growling “Your Grrrrreat,” and several other equally sappy selections that were perfect for 8 year-olds.  I spent the evening meticulously signing my name to all the cards, reserving the generic “Happy Valentine’s Day” card for the classmates I didn’t know very well.  Everyone in my class was getting a card.

Love was in the air on the 14th.  My classmates and I played postman and walked around the room putting the Valentines in the customized brown bag mailboxes.  The morning bell rang and we assumed the position, dutifully holding our hands over our hearts while we recited the Pledge of Allegiance.  Afterwards, the PA box squawked and the principal wished the school a happy Valentine’s Day.  We ripped into our mailboxes and ate the cookies our homeroom mother brought.  I soon realized that Valentine’s Day wasn’t that special.  I may have been too young to understand it was a holiday designed to boost the first quarter economy through flower, card, and chocolate sales.  I could tell that it was a day to receive the same goddamn Valentines that I gave my classmates.  It appeared we all bought the same box of assorted Valentines.  I received six bee cards and three generic “Happy Valentines Day” cards in additional to other miscellaneous selections.

Since that day in third grade, all my Valentine Days have melted together into one homogeneous pot of low effort attempts.  Cards, flowers, and candy – the standard fare.  I lived each year to see if Valentine’s Day could get any worse than the last one.  I became addicted to bad Valentine’s days.  I suppose that is why I don’t remember any details of any Valentine’s day until 2001.  I was sitting in my office and I heard it – the “ooooohhhh’s and aaaahhhhhh’s” that are uttered when the flower delivery guy is on the floor.  I could see his arrangements and balloons bouncing along the walls above cube-ville like a puppet show. And then he appeared before me.

“Can I help you find someone?” I asked.

“Miss Marrrrrrrna, this is for you,” he said.

My mouth was still open when he put the box on my desk and turned away smiling.  I opened it and laughed.  It was perfect.  I read my pitch forked card and realized Kathy, my 52 year-old divorced coworker – someone who knew me for 28 business days, gave me the perfect Valentine:  a cactus garden with a mirror backdrop.  It was low maintenance and a thing of beauty.  My prickly valentine injected me with a dose of reality.  My cactus was untraditional, thoughtful, and unexpected.  It was a succulent botanical intervention. One day someone with equal creativity and thoughtfulness will top Kathy’s 2001 gift.

I’m hopeful like a third grader.

In my next life, I want to come back as a gay addict.  The habit is TBD.  All I know is these 12-step meetings are one-part sobriety maintenance and three-parts hookup.  The gays in West Hollywood don’t need to online date.  When they have free time, they go to a “meeting.”

My Main Gay is constantly in and out of relationships.  I sit on the sidelines feeling tragically single and heterosexual as I hear about his exploits. Today we met for lunch and I got the ga-ga eyes and “oh, this one is for real” speech.

“This isn’t fair.  Is this another friends-of-bill hookup?” I whined.

“Yes, we met at a meeting.  We are so in love,” he proclaimed.  “He’s mine.”

I can’t even meet a straight man at the grocery store and Main Gay is seeking my advice on Valentine’s Day.  Fanfuckingtastic.   He’s thinking about a long, romantic weekend up in Santa Barbara.  I told him I wasn’t the girl to ask Valentine’s day advice from – it has probably been more than 15 years since a man planned more than a simple card and chocolates for me.

“Aw, my hag needs a real man,” he said.

Right.  We’ve seen how well that’s worked out for me in southern California.  I think it is easier to just plan on being gay in my next life – with a severe addiction to beer.

I’m pretty sure I’m never getting laid again, and I’m ok with it.  Here’s why.  My dog is in love with me.

It was a long courtship of walks, parks, car rides, and movies on the couch.  He waited to sleep with me for six months.  Then one day when I came home on crutches from foot surgery and he sprung into action.  While I was konked out on painkillers with my iced foot propped up on the couch, he climbed up and laid on top of me, like a hen on her chick.  I woke up when my dog walker came in and exclaimed, “oh my god Marna, are you ok?”  He reluctantly left for his walk.

Later that evening, my K9 nurse climbed into bed with me and slept with his head on my stomach watching me.  We’ve pretty much been sleeping together ever since – me and my 85-pound dog in a queen-size bed.

After Christmas, our relationship went to the next level.  He now wants to put his head on my shoulder and the pillow.  I was too tired to protest and move him the first night, then I realized his light snoring (similar to this dog) puts me to sleep faster than a wave machine.

I’m not sure what I’m doing right in this relationship, but it’s working.  I’ll take an old, rescued dog over a middle-aged man with baggage any day.  Tex is in it for the long haul.

I realize for most parents, one of their early happiest days are when their kid can wipe their own ass and make a meal.  For me, it’s the two- to three-year old age bracket when they’ll repeat a cuss word unexpectedly.  I laugh, the parents cringe.

Today I was in Petco with Tex, my only begotten son.  We were on a quest for pumpkin-head sized reindeer antlers.  I know, it’s gay and he’s going to kill me in my sleep, but I live in West Hollywood where the average dog weight is six pounds.  This 85-pound American Bulldog can’t compete with the sweater-wearing purse puppies except with seasonal accessories.  So we were in the aisle with the pet pee squirt bottles, rug piss shampoo, smell be-gone, etc.. My dog lifted his leg and pissed on the bottom rack of urine sprays.  Ironic, I know, and glorious at the same time.  I began laughing, then I quickly looked to see if anyone saw.  I thought about cleanup, for two seconds, and then figured someone else would enjoy the pee puddle irony and laugh too.

My dog doesn’t bark or cuss, but it is little things like this that make him more fun than a toddler.

Support online shopping and struggling Los Angeles writers by purchasing Sleeping with snakes:  Notes from the Los Angeles underbelly.

Give the gift of Marna.  My short story, “Talking Dirty,” appears alongside other fabulous authors observing life in Los Angeles.  Charles Bukowski, the granddaddy of dirty talk, is also included in the collection.

Also available on Amazon.

This is probably just me. My little problem, you know, because I was born before 1980. But when a help wanted/job ad says “profitable online startup,” that is not a positive selling point to me. It’s about as appealing as a partner telling me their Valtrex copay is only $5.

2009 Thanksgiving

I had another one of those “oh fuck I do live in California” moments this week when I realized that 72 percent of my Thanksgiving guests were vegetarian or vegan. It really called into question if I had to buy a turkey or if I could get away with making turkey burgers.

I haven’t made the full switch yet, and I still enjoy fish, but I knew I’d have to cook and carve the turkey and get the carcass out of the house before the V’s arrived so as not to offend. They aren’t the wishbone snapping types. Dinner went off with out a problem, but the fun came afterwards.

The conversation reverted to vegetarian food: how to make a good tofu scramble, wheat-free breads, tempeh, and my soy chorizo. I watched my meat-eating Texan friend as we yammered on and I could tell he was ready to blow. This I knew because he arrived first and said something to the effect of, “there’s no reason to be a vegetarian except for religious purposes.” I mentioned cruelty in the food industry. He is in the “meat is tasty” camp. Needless to say, he was one of the first to finish up and leave, but not before he confirmed that vegan pumpkin pie was not as good without butter.

We enjoyed our vegetables and odd conversations without the presence of our own family members. That’s probably why we had a good time, just like the original settlers did minus the tofurky roast.

In my continuing effort to live a healthy, unemployed lifestyle, I decided now would be a good time to try one of those eight-week, Runner’s World couch-to-marathon training programs. I started week two today and I think I’m going to flunk myself and repeat week one.

I knew this was going to be a harder week, so this morning I suited up appropriately: super-plus tampon, Spanx to give my thighs more zing, and a waist-cincher to support my back. I successfully managed to run two minutes with a one minute break until I hit 15 minutes and realized my heart rate had soared to an unbelievable 175 BPM. WTF. I reverted back to the week one lesson of 1run/2walk.

What doesn’t make sense to me is I can go like a maniac on an eliptical machine at the gym on my off days, but that foot pounding into the pavement seems to freak my body out. Come to think of it, I can have hot monkey sex longer than I can run.

Everyone I know who has taken up running late-life loves it. I’m going to get through this eight-week program even if it takes me… four months. But for now, the only runner’s high I’m going to get is from the beer I have afterwards.

With my focus on my career, I’m sure you were worried that I’d never write about guys or dates again. Not to worry, this is Los Angeles, so there’s always going to be a story. I just haven’t had the time to write this one.

Houston (let’s call him that instead of nutless) and I met online in mid-July and began dating immediately. He was one of those Type A planners who would book three dates in a week. In fact, I mentioned to him that his frequency was outstanding and unlike the 1x/week LA guy mentality. “I know what I like and I go for it,” was his answer.

So, we went out to dinner, we played tennis, we saw movies and shows, we went to concerts and parties. We did stuff. He even took me and my dog to a four-star hotel weekend getaway. Somewhere in the middle of all this, I got laid off. We went out less. He called and emailed less. But I wasn’t really paying attention because I was focused on the job thing and getting out to network.

Our last date was a business dinner with some of his ad reps, one of whom commented on what a cute couple we were. I never heard from him after that night. The guy who pitched himself as the nicest guy I’d ever meet did the fade out on me. Had I been more alert, I would of seen this coming and beat him to the dump.

“Are you sure he didn’t have a medical emergency and just couldn’t call you? He was older, after all,” said a friend. “No, he’s alive because he posted a marketing job on craig’s list,” I explained. “Gosh, don’t you want to understand what happened?” she asked.

Not necessary, is it? He was under the 90-day LA trial relationship period. He demonstrated by his actions that he couldn’t nut up and dump me proper. That’s alright, he had republican tendencies and poor musical taste. All I can say is…. Celine Dion? Really? That’s my closure.